Waiting
by CuffedBunnies
Summary: Castle's waiting on a call.  Set during the three month gap in the episode, 'Rise.'


**Waiting**

**Disclaimer:** YeahNO, no, not mine. Unfortunately.

**Summary:** Castle's waiting on a call. Set during the three month gap in 'Rise.'

**A/N:** Co-written with lms2457, who (very happily, btw) took the original and made it into its current state. :)

From lms2457: quick thanks to CB for graciously letting me hijack her beautiful work...again...

_To lms2457, my awesome beta and best friend. You're the early bird to my night owl, and we still manage to connect. :)_

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><p><em>The long and winding road that leads to your door will never disappear...<em>

_ The Long and Winding Road - The Beatles_

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><p>Rick watches the movement of the pedestrians and cars as they travel on the sidewalks and streets below.<p>

He can't remember exactly how many days have passed since he last saw Kate. Granted, he knows she's fine, yet there is an emptiness gnawing inside him from the knowledge of how simple it was for her to send him away.

She promised to call, so he waits, checking his phone from time to time, hoping he's somehow missed its ring.

He knows she is still in the hospital, injuries like hers take time to heal. And that's only the physical ones.

However, his mind is on her promise to call, and he's so very certain she will. The alternative is unthinkable.

Castle walks the streets of New York. Weeks, that feel like years, have passed since seeing Kate in the hospital. He vividly recalls the image he still holds of her: pale, her hair mussed and her voice still husky from the medications and the tubes he can't bring himself to think about.

It can only be an accident that brings him by her apartment building, he is sure. He looks up, uncertain how he has found himself here. Rick remembers leaving the loft to get some air, and until this moment, he hasn't been in this world, but in one of his own making.

For a time, he studies the brick walls and considers walking through the door to see if she's home. The image of another building exploding into flames tears through his mind. It tightens something deep in his chest, and he realizes how much he misses her, how worried he's become.

Kate's voice is so clear in his mind, the rough, hushed tone she spoke with when she told him she would call.

With a flick of his wrist, Castle checks his phone, still waiting. At last, he shrugs and continues on his way.

Rick tosses another pair of socks into his suitcase, then glances at the calendar. The date rings in his mind, and numbs his soul. Two months have passed since he saw Kate. One corner of his mouth pulls downward in disappointment as the suitcase clicks shut. Now, he's packed and ready to leave.

New York doesn't seem to care for him anymore. Or maybe he doesn't care for the city. Everything about it, every street and corner, every block of the beautiful metropolis makes him think of her, of Kate.

The twinge of emptiness in his chest is turning dark, and he knows he needs to get away before the blackness takes over. He can tell by the looks from Alexis and his mother that it's already long past time for him to get away.

Castle takes one last look at his phone and turns it off. Funny, how easily he did it, and he feels little pain or regret for doing so. And the phone is only a distraction - something he currently doesn't need at all.

Or maybe he's fooling himself.

Either way, he needs to finish the final tweaks of Heat Rises, and there is no possible way he can do it here. Not under the current circumstances. Not with so much of... so much of _her_ permeating the world around him.

Maybe Kate needs more time, but he's exhausted, and more than a little hurt, from waiting.

When he pulls into the drive at his home in the Hamptons, Castle takes in a deep breath of the salt tanged air. It does little to help. Only time can ease the pain that has resurfaced with a vengeance.

It's with an air of defeat that he enters the house. And yet, here is hope... there is always, always, hope. Hope that his time away will bring back part of him that is missing, or at least mend it enough so he can move on with his life.

But to move on is to let go. And he can't face that. Can't just move on from her, can't just let go. And so, he is waiting.

Still waiting.

He sighs in relief when the last of Heat Rises is well and truly done. This one has been hard from the start, and in the end, it seemed as if life had conspired to make the process as difficult as possible. He wishes she were here. She would have understood.

But, he knows his work isn't done. He's committed to writing at least one more book for Nikki, he realizes, as a heavy weight settles between his shoulder blades and digs in deeply to his neck. What if she never calls? Though they never speak of it anymore, this is her story, theirs really. How can he even think about writing it without Kate? Without his muse? It's unthinkable.

He wants so badly to call her. Just to hear her voice... the voice that might just breathe life back into him... it's all he wants. The ache in his chest encompasses his entire body. He pulls out his phone and his finger hovers over the number 2, the speed dial reserved for her, just after his daughter's... forever, then just as quickly, he closes the app and slides the phone back onto the desk.

Instead, he waits.

It's what Kate wants, and somewhere down the line, her desires have become much more important to him than his own.

Besides, she is worth the wait. Always worth the wait.

When September arrives, Rick finds himself back in New York, more or less against his will. His publisher made him return. His contract demands he make at least a few book signings, so here he sits.

He signs blindly, mindlessly. They make him sign the front of the jackets now, and he hates it. But at least it aides him now, makes the process automatic. The naked admiration he had once loved grates on him now, unwanted and unwelcome. He tries to engage, tries to smile at first. It's hopeless.

He sighs and motions for the next person in line to come forward, relieved only that it brings him closer to the eventual end. He doesn't bother to look up as the next woman in line approaches his desk.

Her presence is vaguely familiar, stirs something in the air around him but he pushes the feeling down, away. He's sure it's a figment of his imagination, of his wounded pride and broken heart.

"Kate," she says, her voice quiet, and maybe a little nervous, "you can make it out to Kate."

In that moment, his heart races, stops. He knows that voice. He must. He can't be that far gone.

But why? Why would Kate come here, of all places, in order to find him? She has his number, and she has known all along she can call him. She promised she would, but hasn't. It's taken him all summer, but he had just begun to give up on hearing from her, on ever seeing her again.

Now, he doesn't want to look up, afraid the instant he does, it will shatter the illusion into a billion hopeless fragments. His mutinous heart rebels, and his body follows, beyond his control. He looks up, and she's standing there before him. Kate, his Kate, holding his book - their story - in her hands, the dark pools of her eyes pleading for some intangible unknown.

All the dark lonely days swirl into him at once, and he takes the book from her without thinking it through. He opens the cover, breaking the rules. Switches to an ink pen - markers are hers - and scrawls her name and his with nearly enough force to cut through the paper. Hands it back, betraying nothing, pretending not to feel.

But when he emerges from the door of the bookstore nearly an hour later, his wounded heart lightens a bit, beginning to mend. In this moment, he knows all the waiting, the time, _the pain_, has been worth it.

Because she is there, waiting for him.


End file.
